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Long Younger Poems

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And People Ask Why I Don'T Take a Class

My vacant stare was sure to be 
a giveaway to anyone that saw . . .
I was a Pilgrim there to the land of techno-jargon,
of icons, Help instructions meaning nothing,
and a world of young and savvy operators.
Our teacher wasn’t there. 
Certain that the worksheet explaining all the basics
would be a breeze for us to carry out,
he’d arrogantly left the room
and left the lot of us to the mercy of
a keyboard and computer.

I looked up from his worksheet 
to a screen that stared right back at me,
awaiting my commands.
I was on the starting path to what is often called
the Super Highway, 
and my boarding pass, tuition to the class,
was non-refundable.
Overwhelmed, I started out.  Then I hit a rut
and didn’t have a clue what next to do.
My learning peers already seemed to know
the route quite well. 
Some, in fact, were calling it a day
while I stayed on, ashamed to bother
any of the others there for help.

I looked around the room, my tired brain
a hot plate in the midst of younger minds
with the speed of ovens made for microwave.
Perhaps they’d all conspired to put 
the older lady at unease.
It seemed the more I tried to understand,
the more pathetically off course I’d go. . . 
Till finally (longing for a time when 
“cut and paste” implied the use of scissors),
I got up from my seat and left behind
the self-instructing worksheet which
that egghead teacher said would be “a cinch.” 
Two big words were scrawled across the top
of its first page, two big words in red,
written with the one tool I could trust: 
SCREW IT. 


For Natalie Whitlock's 
"Talkin' Technology" Contest

computer-internetwordsteacherteacher

Form: Narrative

Quiet Beneath

The floorboards creak beneath the weight of moonbeams,
And shadows stretch their fingers, long and thin,
To touch the dust that gathers in the quiet,
Where all the day’s discarded ghosts begin.
Reagan*, you know the hollow feeling,
When silence settles heavy on the room,
And peering down beyond the mattress borders,
You search the darkness in the midnight gloom.

It is not monsters with their sharp-edged shadows,
Or pointed teeth that wait to pull you down,
But piles of books you promised you would finish,
And shirts left crumpled like a discarded crown.
There lies the evidence of being human—
A single sock that lost its better half,
A dusty box of letters tied in ribbon,
That hold a younger version’s desperate laugh.

The under-bed is archive and confessional,
A sanctuary built of lint and shade,
Where worries shed their armor in the darkness,
And plans for tomorrow begin to fade.
It holds the blueprints of a weary traveler,
The heavy boots that walked the miles today,
And tangled cords of thoughts you couldn’t settle,
Before the sun stole all the light away.

So, Reagan, when night pulls tight the curtains,
Don’t fear the void that waits beneath the frame;
It is just a mirror of your own persistence,
A quiet space that does not ask your name.
The dust bunnies are merely quiet witnesses,
To every dream you’ve dared to hold and keep,
While you, within the comfort of the blankets,
Find solace in the deep and human sleep.

* Granddaughter

childhooddeepimagerynightsolitude

Form: Free verse

Once upon a summer’s eve, when I was younger, I met a person over the phone.
She was the concerned mother of my daughter’s new best 14-year-old friend, Sandra Bone.
Our conversation led to psychical stories, when suddenly she asked, “What are you doing right now?”
Nothing, I replied. “Then we’re coming over,” says she, me and my dog, a malamute chow.
They arrived 12 minutes later, which did not give me any time to put the place back into place.
Twelve months would not have been enough, if I honestly had really wanted to save a bit of face.
I know you from another lifetime, she told me. I have eighty-four percent Indian blood, Cherokee.
I was curious, but alone too, and was hoping she did not have a weapon or the mean streak of three.
We ate cookies and drank lemonade ‘til she asked, “Where’s the wall that cannot be painted any color but pink?”
I was horrified at divulging so much to a complete stranger, wishing I’d remembered what loose lips sink.
It’s a mess, I warned her, but she was already running upstairs with her fluffy somber faced gray dog, a giant cuss.
The dog, Sky, shot straight up in the air as we rounded that dreaded cold-spot corner, and bound outside, past us.
The screen door slammed, we heard it loud and clear, but Sky did not stop running until he had reached the car.
“I’m a witch she told me,” I can sense stuff, and someone got hurt here, from awfulness, they got an awful scar.”
I was really feeling uncomfortable now, in my own home, wishing my uninvited company would go home.
They left two hours later, this strange woman and her sensitive dog, and I sat down and wrote out this poem.

memorynostalgiawomanwomen

Form: Narrative

Holy Cow, Oven Nation Gone Fowl One Cluck

??v ?? ?? ?? ?  I Love You.............!! ?? v ?? ?? ?? ?

•.?*... ...*?.• •*.

these myopic ocular orbs pine 
   for an attractive gal to be adored
far eye got the near rest insight 
   per a magic bullet if jew r bored
undue flattering praises 

   might induce her 2 c come floored
perhaps without any family, friends, relatives...
   or if religious ye kin pray to da lord
unless ya r moored

den let dis senor you ken ease 
   (doll ling) any troubles 
   like egg nog gently poured
and unable to move, 
   or...mebbe trapped by 

   a white striped tiger who roared
cornered in a spit of jumbled 
   feeble woodland where 
   a retinue of wild animals stored
analogously tube he ying 
   closeted in a mental ward.

not that ye care one whit
boot ta many approximately 
   72.57 cheesy full moons ago   
when me younger days alive
i lived at pennfield manor 

where the stern rebuke from robin kratz
   faulted disgusting messiness
   and angered water bugs 
   who marched against getting evicted

(where spouse twas 
   one chaotic rabid follower of entropy
   and adherent of utter disorderliness
   if  such band name of aforementioned 
   the audience would wave meat cleavers 
   and as tokens of appreciation,

12th grade9th gradeanimal

Form: Dramatic Verse